Times have been turbulent, a year fresh from graduating college, after receiving MFA.
I faced many, many "no" letters. I wasn't a good fit for various art shows, residencies, fellowships, and retreats in both art and writing categories. I admit, tears came. I cried so hard that painful headaches came on. In order to feel better, I slept tons, greedily consumed chocolate, listened to the sappiest songs (The Smiths on repeat), and binged on romantic things, living vicariously through women who were concerned about dates and lipsticks matching outfits.
The final self-portrait in a trilogy series. See the other two here. |
Life passes by with roaring speed of light. Former
classmates receive entrance into exhibitions across the country and gather honorary
rewards along the way. “No” notifications fill my inbox, waiting clickbait piling
up like a mountain. Watered eyes can barely finish these missives, instead
discarding without fully reading beyond, “Dear Applicant,” “Thank you for
applying,” and the dreadful, “We had over this many application.” For a moment,
pencil falters, paintbrush stops moving, and fingers at the keyboard suffer impediment,
all feelings failure bring under treacherous wings. Questions arise. Instead of
considering that jurors have specific aesthetics that my work didn’t meet, my
abilities as an artist and writer are put on trial. This vulnerability, this
inexplicable sadness often threatens to dismantle my creativity, desiring to
stop the making that drives my heart and soul.
"'less classically beautiful than her,' Viola Revealed That We're Not All Halle Berry," graphite and watercolor on wood panel, 16" x 20," 2017 |
"'preference for dark skin prevailed,' In Lupita's 'Black Girl Magic' Speech," graphite and watercolor on wood panel, 16" x 20," 2017 |
"keep your stupid mouth shut," graphite and watercolor on wood panel, 8" x 10," 2017 |
By powerful grace, I found strength to continue creating. I have to.
The faucet cannot turn off. I know that I am meant to be an artist. I cannot resist drawing. I could fight the urgent need for days. In the end, I cave. I cave in to the feel of the pencil between my fingers, the compulsion to render braids and afros on a brown face means the world. Partly, it's working at the museum that quenches my thirst, the sight of paintings that tempt my desire to draw shapes and forms.
I am now drawing from inspirations of daily sight watching. Philadelphia has a mecca of fashionable people walking around. It happens at the most unexpected times. Often, I don't carry a sketchbook around. Yet my memory is sharper than a dagger tip.
"Black Nirvana" progression joins two pieces of paper. Sometimes an idea just needs leg room. |
On my way to the train station, I ran into the most stylish duo, in head wraps and colorful outfits. The third girl (box braids, Africa continent earring, and seamless tuxedo jacket) is invented. |
A drawing comprised of gluttony and humor. On the day I came to NYC to see Lynette Yiadom-Boakye speak (and eat sweets at Cocoa V), it had been the anniversary of Frida Kahlo's death. |
"I had no room," he said, regrettably.
Here, I thought that "keep your mouth shut" wasn't pleasing enough.
Still, the night gets better: I was asked to have a solo exhibition! A solo exhibition-- in Philadelphia? I suppose we start somewhere. This just may be the place.
Not to say that the art life isn't filled with more negatives than positives. It always will be. At least, for most of us. We creative beings will continue to face rejection until our hourglass sifts its final grains of sand. I'm applying for a few more things to wrap up the year. I hope to bear more fruit. For now, I'll revel in the beautiful bits offered. Eventually, crumbs become a meal.
Wow, congratulations! Your two accepted pieces look amazing together on the gallery wall! And I absolutely love your self-portrait! Best of luck with your solo exhibition!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Julie! <3
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